


Under the Most Artistic Circumstances

by firbolging



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Heist, Alternate Universe - Human, Art Forgery, Art Theft, Bad Driving, Blood, F/M, accidental injury, misuse of swords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firbolging/pseuds/firbolging
Summary: The daughter of a renowned art collector, Jester Lavorre spends most of her days creating forgeries on his behalf. All appears to be going well until a misguided loan to a museum puts her father in danger of being discovered. The only solution? To team up with the man she caught breaking into her house the night before.Based on the movie 'How to Steal a Million'
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 18
Kudos: 31





	Under the Most Artistic Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> She's back with another Widojest AU. It is her life's purpose apparently.
> 
> Warning for anyone wanting to check out the source movie: highly unacceptable treatment of the female lead by the male (none of which will feature here at all) and generally outdated gender dynamics.

_The Spring of 1966, Paris, France_

Jester had grown up squeezing her cheeks between railings. It didn’t really help her _see_ much more than the tops of heads, but it had become something of a habit. So much so that she continued to sit, perched on the top step of a grand spiraling staircase, her hands gripping the railing, her cheeks being squeezed between, at the age of twenty-eight.

Below, her father was conducting business with a man who was grey and thinning on top. She had intended to come down to enquire after some post-dinner pastries when she had caught the sound of formal tones. There was no reason she had to stay hidden. She did not, after all, live with her mother anymore. But men so rarely felt comfortable being candid in front of young ladies. Particularly in matters of _culture_. No amount of paint beneath her fingernails could convince a man in a suit that she knew canvas from cardboard.

The large foyer of their Paris mansion was dotted with her work, though the signatures on her paintings ranged from Picasso to Van Gogh. Amongst the nouveau riche clutter of gold trimmed furniture and mahogany side tables laden with fine china, it was difficult for anything to truly stand out in their home. But the Van Gogh, the sunrise over the field of orange and blue, did catch the eye. She was proud of her work. She would have been prouder still to have put her own name on it.

In front of that very painting, her father swirled his glass of amber liquid and said, “I trust, of course, that it will be handled like the five-million-franc piece it is.”

“Sir,” replied the other man, “I am a museum curator. I believe I know how to protect art.”

“Yes, you would think wouldn’t you.”

“You are referring to the break in.”

“Am I?”

“An oversight in security, I assure you. We have more than quadrupled our measures since. No person, no creature, no speck of dust, will come within thirty feet of your property without our knowing it.”

Jester let out a quiet huff. It had been interesting, once upon a time, to listen to her father dance around legitimate curators. He would tease them, bring them to the very edge of a deal, then leave them cold and disappointed. It was not, she thought, all too different from how her mother had dealt with many of her own clients. But her interest had waned. She could finish the script herself. Her father would sigh, tilt his chin to the ceiling, eyes narrowed. As though he were truly considering the deal. Then he would shake his head and offer his undying apologies.

Her mother had employed a different method for teasing each different man. Her father had a strict routine which, in fairness, Jester had never seen fail him. The only variety which remained was the way the legitimate curator would storm off. Sometimes they would attempt to hide their irritation, to varying degrees of success, while others would make so secret of it. One had sneered, “Well that you for wasting my evening, _Sir”_ before throwing the front doors open and going miserably into the night.

That evening’s conversation, though, must be nearing its end, she thought. It would not hurt her to wait a little longer. Her body did not agree. She crossed and uncrossed her slippered feet, lifted her fingers in a wave on the wood, and puffed up her cheeks to push against the railings.

Then, she heard the tell-tale sigh of her father and glanced down to see his chin tilt upwards. She waited for him to pour the rest of his drink down his throat before crushing the curator’s hopes. He took a sip. And then another. He met the other man’s eye and said, “Alright. We have a deal.”

Jester’s blood froze.

Numb to the conversation for a moment, when her attention was once more engaged, a contract was being pulled from a briefcase. Her father hesitated, his pen hovering over the blank space his signature ought to go.

“And this guarantees the full value of the piece will be paid to me should it be lost, stolen, or broken.”

Oh, she thought, maybe he was simply drawing out the teasing.

“It does,” replied the curator.

“Good.”

Then, with a flourish, her father scribbled his signature.

The curator smiled, tucking the contract back into his case and saying, “Perfect. My people will return in the morning to collect the piece.”

The curator left with a bounce in his step. Once the front door had slammed, she leapt to her feet and pounded down the stairs.

“Papa!” she cried.

“Jester,” he replied brightly, finally gulping down the rest of his drink. As he turned his back to refill his glass, he continued, “I assume you heard the good news.”

“Papa, have you gone mad? You can’t sell something to a museum.”

“I’m not selling anything, darling. I’m merely loaning them a piece.”

“And what if they test it?”

“Why would they?”

“Because that’s what they do! That’s what you’ve always said museums and galleries are guilty of.”

“Which is why I haven’t sold it. I’m not even being paid for the loan. So, you see my dear, they have no reason to test it.”

Jester folded her arms. She had a thousand arguments on the tip of her tongue, but she offered none. Instead, she asked, “Which piece was it?”

He fixed her with a crooked smile. “Cellini’s Traveler.”

Jester was intimately familiar with their Traveler. It had taken her almost ten times to perfect the sculpture. She often guided wealthy ladies to view it as they clutched their pearls, remarking at how fine the detail was on something so small. Their Traveler was a perfect copy, on the surface at least, of Cellini’s Traveler. A cloaked figure with only a smirk and a shadow of a nose showing, cast in bronze. Of all their pieces, this was not the one Jester had expected to be handed over.

“Really, Papa? A statue?”

“Yes, yes. A statue.”

“But statues are far easier to test than paintings, don’t you know that? You can’t just dust it with scrapings from legitimate works. If they were to examine the material itself-”

“It makes no difference, my dear. It is mine. My property. They have no right to fiddle with it.”

Jester chewed on the inside of her cheek and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Completely. And think of the advertising! My dear, this is the Nicodranas Museum of Art we are speaking of. Not only will all of Paris get a glimpse of what my collection has to offer, but there will be photographs pasted on postcards, sent to people all around the world. I will be selling the same Van Gogh to a man in New Zealand as I am to a woman in Argentina. And nobody will be any the wiser.”

“It just seems… risky.”

“I have been in the forgery business a little longer than you. I understand the risks, and I understand the reward. And _this_ is too great a reward to refuse. Come now, don’t you trust me?”

Jester gave a shrug, “I suppose. I mean, yes. Of course, I trust you. But I don’t trust that balding man who was in here before.”

“Never judge a man by his hairline. Even the most awful scoundrel can have the most luxurious head of head. Look at me,” he said with a grin, gesturing towards the long black ponytail which sat upon his shoulder.

Jester could not help but smile.

“I have convinced you,” he said.

“A little.”

“Good. Now, I am going to the club. I assume you don’t want to come.”

Jester gave a non-committal shrug, but he was right. She had no interest in his club full of smoking and drinking and middle-aged to elderly men talking about deals and _business_.

“I thought so,” he continued. “There are pastries in the kitchen if you’re looking to celebrate in your own way.”

Jester waited while her father donned his fur coat and kissed his cheek in parting. Then, feeling queasy, she decided to postpone the pastries until morning, and returned to her bedroom. She gave her queen-sized bed a glance, taking in the inviting pink silk sheets before acknowledging that sleep was beyond her grasp for the moment. Mind too full for rest, she opened her oak wardrobe, pushed aside her best Givenchy, and popped the false back to reveal her studio. Crouching her way through the entrance, she took in the comforting smell of the hidden room. Dried paint and dust flooded her senses. This was the space where she had control. This was where she excelled. Once she had reached through to close the wardrobe and shifted the false back to cover her tracks, she settled set herself down before her easel and began to sketch.

She had not known exactly what she had wanted to create at first, but her fingers seemed to be certain. An hour passed and her mother was staring back at her. With a sigh, she dropped her pencil and reached out to stroke the canvas.

“Oh, Mama,” she breathed. “I hope you are not too disappointed in me.”

Marion Lavorre had not been a judgmental mother. Whenever Jester had been given the chance to show off her skills, or lack thereof, Marion had clapped, gasped, and laughed on cue. If she could just play a cacophony for her one more time. A prickle in the corner of her eye threatened tears. No, she thought, there was too much to think on without making room for grief. It would do her no good. Best to sleep.

Once her studio was sealed, she put on her favourite night gown – frilly and as pink as the sheets she climbed beneath – and squeezed her eyes tight, praying for sleep to take her. It did not. After tossing and turning for what felt like forever, she threw back her covers with a grumble.

Her stomach was empty, she remembered. That was a problem she could solve. Pattering down the stairs once more, barefoot in the dark, her mind was on those previously abandoned pastries alone. She was not expecting to hear a rustle in the foyer. She was certainly not expecting a crash of china followed by a muttering of swears in a language which neither she nor her father spoke.

She rushed to the bottom of the stairs and flickered on the switch, illuminating the room in full. Her eyes landed first on a turquoise vase turned to shards on the marble floor, then to her Van Gogh. No longer on the wall, it was suspended by a pair of pale hands. Suit-trousered legs protruded from beneath.

In a panic, Jester’s instincts took over. She reached for a pair of swords displayed on the wall behind her and pulled one free. It would likely be blunt, but the intruder had no way of knowing that.

Clutching the handle with both hands, she called out, “Show yourself.”

The intruder cleared his throat before replying, in a heavy German accent, “I would rather not.”

“I’m armed!”

“Ah,” he said.

Then, very slowly, he began to lower the painting. His hair was shaggy and orange, as was his stubble. While his suit trousers were paired with a white shirt, there was a distinct look of disarray about him. Neither piece even remotely hugged his slim form, and the fabric betrayed thrift even from a distance. But his _eyes_ , his eyes were so startlingly blue that she almost lost her grip on the sword. Those same blue eyes narrowed as the intruder’s gaze settled on the blade in her hands.

“Huh,” he breathed, delicately placing the painting at his feet, and raising his palms in surrender, “I must admit I was expecting a gun.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied with a grin and a lie, “I am a fencing champion. I can poke holes in you faster than I can shoot them.”

His eyes narrowed further, and she hoped very much that he was not seeing right through her. She must have been a sight, she thought, with her ankle-length lace nightie and her medieval weapon.

“Stay there,” she said, shuffling backwards towards the telephone. “I’m calling the police.”

A pained look flickered across his face as he said, “Is that really necessary? Your painting is intact, and I can pay for the broken vase.”

She hesitated and his mouth twitched at the corners. He was right. After all, there was no real harm done. There was no need to invite the authorities into her home. Not when so much of what was on display, including the Van Gogh itself, was fraudulent. But would he really go quietly?

Caught between a potentially dangerous criminal and the authorities, she asked, “You’re not armed are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Well,” he said, lowering his hands to turn his pockets inside out, pulling out a pair of car keys and a tattered brown leather wallet. “As you can see, I am no threat to you.”

“You didn’t bring a jacket?”

“I did, but it’s over there.”

He nodded towards a nearby chaise lounge, embroidered with silver feathers, and draped with a long coat which looked to be even more tattered than his wallet.

“Okay,” she breathed, taking a step closer to him and away from the phone. “Okay, show me what’s in those pockets and then you can go.”

“Thank you very much,” he said, raising his palms once more as they marched together across the foyer.

This was stupid, she thought, watching him bend over and pick up his coat. At any moment he might pull out a pistol and she would be done for.

“Wait!” she cried. He froze, hovering over his coat, but not touching it. “Sorry. I just need to…” she trailed off, stepping even closer so that she could rest the point of her blade just beneath his chin. “Okay, carry on.”

“Yes, this is much better,” he said bitterly, grabbing his coat in one swift movement.

As he straightened, the point of the sword followed. He shook the coat, showed her to worn interior with its single pocket, producing only a moleskin notebook. The external pockets were completely empty. He then tucked the coat beneath one arm, making sure to keep one hand raised at all times.

Flushed with relief and humour at the absurdity of it all, she laughed, “Did you really break into my home with only a set of keys, a wallet, and a book to defend yourself?”

“If I’m honest, I did not expect to have to defend myself. Could you put the sword away now?”

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Of course.”

With a newfound ease, she let her grip go limp, still believing the blade to be blunt. In retrospect, she could have been a little more careful. As the sword swung down, it caught on one of his hands, drawing a red line from the space between his thumb and forefinger, right down to the center of his palm.

“Oh!” she cried.

He winced, clenching his teeth, and his coat dropped to the floor and he brought his uninjured hand to squeeze the cut one.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she babbled, tossing the sword onto the chaise lounge so that she might inspect the wound.

He flinched away from her, saying, “It’s okay. I’m sure I deserved it. Can I go now?”

The pain was so evident in his voice, and the blood was beginning to pool. It did not feel right to send him off in such a state.

“Come with me,” she said. “I can clean that up for you.”

“It’s not necessary,” he replied, still wincing.

“Come on. Or I’ll stab you again.” As his eyes widened, she hastily added, “Kidding!”

“Ha, ha,” he said without feeling.

Despite his inability to see the humour of the situation, he did not struggle against her gentle nudges towards the kitchen. There, she sat him at the counter and began to search for the first aid kit.

With her head in the pantry, she called out conversationally, “I think it’s in here somewhere. Aha!” The green, plastic box was blanketed by a thin layer of dust and, once she blew it clean, it caused her to sneeze.

From behind her, the intruder said, “Bless you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, closing the pantry door behind her. “I feel like I should ask you your name. I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘the intruder.’”

He quirked an eyebrow as she took the seat beside him and began rummaging in the first aid kit for bandages and alcohol.

“I can tell you my name first,” she offered.

“You are not the anonymous criminal in this situation.”

“That’s true, but I also promised I wouldn’t call the police and I’m about to tend to your wound.”

She expected him to quip that he had no way of knowing that she would stay true to her word, or at the very least remind her that she had been the one to inflict the wound on his hand. Instead, he fixed his blue eyes on her busy hands and said, “Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

“Nice to meet you, Caleb,” she said with a giggle. “My name is Jester. Jester Lavorre. Shit!”

He startled slightly at her exclamation.

She elaborated, “No alcohol.”

He gave a tight-jawed nod, then said, “Do you have any whiskey? Vodka?”

“Sure, but I don’t think a drink will stop it from getting infected.”

“I meant, to pour on the wound before wrapping it.”

“Oh! That makes more sense.”

She hopped off her stool and made her way over to her father’s liquor cabinet, humming as she went.

“You know,” said Caleb. “You are very cheerful for a near victim of theft.”

“Are your victims not usually cheerful?”

“I can’t say. You’re the first one I’ve met.”

“Well,” she said, returning with a bottle of whiskey, “I guess I feel honoured.”

He gave a shrug as he took the bottle from her. Twisting off the top with his good hand he poured about a quarter of the bottle out. The blood ran away with it, making a puddle on the kitchen counter with the rest of the booze. Then, swiftly, he brought the bottle to his lips and gulped down a good measure of the stuff.

“Is that better?” she asked.

He screwed up his face, took another swig, then said, “Sort of.”

Pulling the bandages from the first aid kit, she gestured to his bad hand and said, “May I?”

He offered it up silently and continued to sip as she tried to wrap him up as gently as possible. After a few minutes, he put down the bottle.

“You’ve not done this before have you?” he asked.

“Nope,” she replied, smacking her lips together. “I suppose it’s a night of firsts.”

She had used rather a lot more gauze than was likely necessary, but the bleeding had been stemmed. At least for the moment.

“There!” she cried.

“Thank you,” he said, sounding genuine.

She gave him a warm smile and he looked away quickly, his cheeks turning a little pink. With a tilt of her head, she fixed him with an inspecting gaze.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“A little.”

“I should call you a car.”

“That would be wise,” he chuckled. “I think the pain has affected my judgment. I did not mean to drink so much. Only…”

“Only what?”

His eyes fluttered closed as he sighed, “My car is parked outside.”

“What? Right outside the house?”

“In the driveway.”

“That’s very stupid. How have you never been caught before?”

“I was hoping to be out quickly.”

Jester rolled her eyes. Confidence was a poor excuse for incompetence. She fell quiet for a moment, considering their options. Caleb took another swig of whiskey.

“Alright,” she said finally, slapping her hand against the counter, causing him to jump a little. “There’s nothing for it. Give me your keys. I’ll drive you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it


End file.
